


The Star

by amandaterasu



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Pining, Soulmate AU, Soulmate-Identifying Marks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-19
Updated: 2020-05-19
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:00:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24277003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amandaterasu/pseuds/amandaterasu
Summary: Aymeric has been searching his whole life for the woman who bears the same mark he does, and struggling with the fact that he's obsessed with the Warrior of Light, even though she bears the mark of another.This uses She/Her pronouns for the Warrior of Light but doesn't have more detail than that. I specifically avoid using names so people can imagine it's their WOL.
Relationships: Aymeric de Borel/Warrior of Light
Comments: 6
Kudos: 118





	The Star

**Author's Note:**

  * For [campdragonhead](https://archiveofourown.org/users/campdragonhead/gifts).



> I just whipped this out right quick because one of my friends was having a bad day. I hope you guys like it!

Aymeric de Borel was more familiar with the fourteen-pointed star than any other shape in the world.

It had been on the back of his right hand since birth, the emblem of his soul’s twin, the one with whom he was destined to share his life. All had one, in varying shapes, somewhere on their person. His destined partner, whomever they were, would bear the same mark, and it was by this that they would recognize each other. He had searched for it on the exposed skin of every person that he met - the curves of their neck, exposed shoulders, gaps in armor. 

Most took great comfort in merely having a mark, knowing they would meet their intended some day, but it was not so for Aymeric. The circumstances of his birth and childhood had left in him a deep yearning for love and acceptance - the undertow that pulled him into despair as he grew to manhood. 

Worse still were those who showed him what affection they could, but did not bear the mark as far as he had seen. He had desperately chased down relationships with both Estinien and Haurchefant - may he find peace in Halone’s Hall - in the hope that once disrobed he would find the star among those most intimate patches of skin that one only exposed to lovers, but it was to no avail. Estinien’s mark had been a series of soft lines, an impression of dragon scales on the underside of his arm; Haurchefant’s, a simple diamond on his abdomen.

Though he had found some measure of comfort in their beds, the lack of identical marks had made such trysts short-lived. How can you truly give yourself to someone when you know another waits to take them away?

An invitation arrived from Lord de Fortemps, announcing he would be hosting a ball in honor of his son, Artoirel, assuming the title of Count. He intended to send his regrets until he noticed a small note in Edmont’s own hand, scrawled onto the back of the elegant ivory card.

_She has already said she will attend._

Aymeric swallowed anxiously. There was no need for the sender to specify who _she_ was. The Warrior of Light had crashed into Ishgard like a hurricane, upending their world in a matter of weeks, then adventure had called her elsewhere, to attend to the needs of a realm that so desperately needed a hero. 

And Aymeric de Borel had been devastated by the loss. 

He had become obsessed with her over the months of their acquaintance, and even moreso as her legend grew. The Lord Speaker followed her exploits with the devotion of a zealot, paying well to any who brought him the smallest morsel of news. It was his great shame and embarrassment, but her raw power - being blessed and sanctified by Hydaelyn herself - was the closest men like he ever came to touching the divine.

A quick glance at his appointment book told him he did not have a prior engagement, and the longing to be with her for just a moment, to dance and hear her laugh… that had him scribbling an acceptance instead.

Aymeric hated himself for doing so; he had seen her mark as well, on her forearm: an intricate series of lines that belied a ritualistic shape, a horned skull between arcing blades. They said the mark of soulmates had some special meaning to the two involved - whomever she was destined for must be fearsome indeed, to have such a sigil, to be worthy to walk beside her.

But still he pined, and drowned himself in wine. For if he could feel a love like this for one who was not his other half, how much more painful would his true soulmate’s ardor be?

* * *

Aymeric stood in a far corner of the ballroom, a glass of wine clutched in one hand. Though he had been dancing, another gentleman had cut in, and so he contented himself to observe and wait for the Champion of Eorzea to arrive. Though it was always a lady’s prerogative to be fashionably late, it did little for his nerves.

He was pouring himself a second glass of wine when he felt a light tap on his shoulder, and turned to find, of all people, Emmanellain de Fortemps standing there. “Yes?”

“She wants you to escort her in,” he said. “Since you’re not dancing.”

The burning in the tips of his ears had to be plainly visible to everyone in the room. _“Me?”_ he asked. “Would it not be more appropriate if it were your brother, or perhaps your father?”

“Artoirel is the star of this party, and Father is trying to manage the guests. I offered, but she said she doesn’t trust me not to get handsy.” Emmanellain giggled. “Can’t say I blame her.”

Giving the boy a dim look in a desperate attempt to hide his delight, Aymeric said, “Lead on then, I suppose. I would hate to keep her waiting.”

The youngest member of the Fortemps family led the Lord Speaker through the back halls of the manor, past the public areas into the private rooms, and stopped before a small door. “Are you presentable, old girl?” Emmanellain called through it. 

“Call me old girl one more time,” she replied, “and I’ll have your tongue.”

“If you want _my_ tongue, why did you have me bring the Lord Spea-” He smacked Emmanellain hard in the back of the head, interrupting his lewd innuendos before they got any worse.

“Will you permit me entry, my lady?” he asked.

“You, yes. Not that ill tempered pervert.” Her voice was light with laughter.

“You heard her ladyship,” he said sternly to Emmanellain as he took the handle. “We’ll see you downstairs.” It was difficult, keeping the excitement from his voice. How few had been those moments when they could be alone. He pushed his way in and turned, firmly closing the door in the youngest Fortemp’s face.

“Forgive me,” Aymeric began, “but I fear he may have tried to force his way in despite the expressed disinvitation.”

The Warrior of Light giggled. “It’s fine. He’d have just made a fool of himself with his lewd mannerisms. Now, Aymeric,” the way she said his name made his heart race, “you must tell me what you think of my dress.”

The practiced, empty compliments of propriety died valiantly on his tongue as he turned to look at her. She was a vision in black taffeta, and though her gown was old fashioned, with the nipped in waist just above voluminous skirts, it did much more than her armor ever had when it came to making the Champion seem a woman, not a warrior.

“I’m not sure about the lace,” she said, holding up one of her arms and tugging at the black lace that extended from the elbow to lay delicately over her bare forearm. “I’m worried it will -”

“Your mark,” he said abruptly, his heart a hummingbird in his chest. “Where is your mark?”

Her cheery expression wilted on her face. “Oh. That.” She shrugged. “I had to kill him.”

“If it is too personal, I will not pry, but…” Aymeric reached out and touched her hand with the tips of his fingers. “I am always here to listen, my lady.”

Huffing a sigh, she shook her head. “There isn’t much to say. After Lahabrea, I knew what the mark was and what it meant. I tried to convince him, but he was tempered by Zodiark. There was not much to be done.” She looked down at their hands where they met. “So I did my duty, and killed the Ascian. In the end, freedom from tempering was the only thing I could give him.”

Aymeric hated himself, then. He had spent his years pining for his true love, coddling himself and imagining that his pain of not having found his other half was the worst that could be borne. All while she had encountered hers - only to learn that he was her sworn enemy - and been forced to choose between her duty and her love.

“I am sorry for your loss,” he whispered, and lifted her hand to his lips to press a chaste kiss to her knuckles. “I think the lace is lovely. The sight of your skin peeking from beneath it will make you stop the heart of every man who yearns for you.”

Her smile returned, small, but playful. “Have I stopped your heart, Aymeric?”

“Of course, my lady,” he replied. “But you’ve never required lace for _that.”_

* * *

Aymeric reached behind the Champion’s back as the steps of the Allemande demanded, turning with her in the steps of the dance. “You must forgive me my curiosity, my lady,” he said, then span away from her as another couple passed between them. “But I must ask if something is true of you, in relation to our earlier conversation.”

She returned to his arms, allowing him to travel with her in a small circle. “I’m listening.”

“When Haurchefant died, Francel’s mark vanished, only to be replaced by another. Is it the same with you?” 

Her laughter carried back to him as they separated for another couple, then wove between a pair themselves. “Yes. Though I haven’t found it’s bearer yet. It’s far simpler, though, which gives me hope I might be able to keep this one.”

Hope. That word ignited in his chest as it passed her lips. “Would you permit me to see it?”

“You’ll have to get me far more inebriated for that,” she teased. “It requires removing a little lace.” 

“I could always seduce you,” he offered, bowing as the music died.

“Oh no,” she said, fluttering her fan in his face. “I couldn’t bear the disappointment.”

Aymeric laughed outright as they strode to one side of the room and he snatched two glasses of champagne from a passing waiter’s tray. He held one out to her and said, “You wound me, my dear, implying that my lovemaking would be a disappointment.”

“Oh, I’m sure you’re _more_ than adequate,” she teased, taking the glass. “But I don’t think I could bear the sadness when our marks don’t match.”

He laughed. “You don’t even know what mine looks like.”

“And I have more manners than to ask. Besides, if you thought it was me, you’d have asked to see mine by now.” Her cheeks were flushed with intoxication already, but she still drank the champagne.

“The only reason I never asked is because I saw the mark on your arm,” he said.

Her smile faded. “Oh.” She took another sip of champagne. “I still cannot show you. It would be indecent.” Her eyes lingered on him for a moment, then she looked away.

“Would you like to see mine?” Aymeric asked, suddenly breathless. “I will, gladly. Even if we do not - are not -”

“Can you do so and be decent?” The Champion’s eyes were cat-like; seeing far more of him than he intended.

“Aye, my lady.” He reached for one of his gove and loosed the button at his wrist, before biting one finger in his teeth and pulling the whole thing off. 

The Warrior of Light was silent as Aymeric placed his hand in hers, the mark up so that she could see. “I do not know what the symbol means," he confided. “Just a fourteen-pointed star.”

She brought her free hand up and touched the longest arm of the shape, that stretched beyond the others, sliding past the knuckle of his middle finger. “The Source,” she murmured, then dragged her delicate fingers in a circle, touching the tip of each spire. “And it’s thirteen reflections.”

“How do you know that?” he asked, his voice barely a whisper. 

“It is one of the symbols of Hydaelyn,” the Champion explained, “and her chosen.”

Still holding his hand, she lifted it to her lace partelet, and at her silent direction Aymeric untied the cord at her neck. She pushed his hand beneath it, and he could feel her hummingbird heart just beneath her skin. The Warrior of Light guided his hand further, far further than was decent, until his fingers came to rest over the far edge of her collarbone.

“Look for yourself,” she said.

Aymeric turned his wrist, pushing aside taffeta and lace to reveal the same star, the one that he had sought since childhood, in the small gap where her collarbone met her shoulder.


End file.
